Dictum
by Starliteyes17
Summary: The monitors beeped quietly. The ventilator whooshed. Dean watched. Sam slept.


_Yet another story for the Secret Santa Fiction Challenge at SFTCOL(AR)S. _

_Original prompt: A story in which Sam gets a minor injury that turns life-threatening, and Dean feels guilty because he thought Sam was maybe being overdramatic about it._

_A/N: I tweaked this a little bit, but hopefully the addition of an aspect from Ibelieveinsam's other possible prompt will make up for it. Merry Christmas, Ibelieveinsam! Hope you enjoy your gift. ;D_

----

_**Dictum**_

It was nearly midnight by the time the Impala pulled to a stop outside the cemetery. The old gate whistled in the wind ominously as Sam broke the lock. Meanwhile, Dean stood at the trunk of the Impala, gathering the necessary weapons and equipment.

_Gasoline, salt, lighter, crowbar, rocksalt..._

Dean hesitated before grabbing two shotguns and throwing them in the bag too, before closing the trunk with a loud _thunk_. Normally, he had no problem holding a shotgun, but this case had gotten to him a bit.

The ghost they were hunting had died at the tender age of nine. Karissa Mill's bloated body had been found on the shore of a nearby lake in the summer of 1931, four days after anyone in the Hoover camp had last seen her, and three days after her family had hurriedly disappeared without a word. She'd been buried and forgotten not long after.

Everyone had thought her death was an accident. They were wrong.

Karissa had suffocated to death, held underwater by her father's own hands, while her resigned mother sat not ten feet away, Karissa's younger brother nestled in her arms.

Sam and Dean had heard the story not two hours ago, from the baby brother himself. According to Jacob Mills, Karissa's parents had lost everything in the Depression, and had been starving when the horrible event had happened. Apparently, Mr. Mills had thought it best to get rid of his oldest child, so that more food could be spared for the more important son. Dean couldn't help thinking of a time not long ago, when a small town in Indiana had felt much the same way.

Now, however, Karissa's spirit had finally decided to enact revenge on the only surviving member – and, ironically, the only innocent one – Jacob.

Earlier that day, Sam and Dean had been at Jacob's home.

"Don't worry, Mr. Mills, we know how to handle this," Sam had reassured the distraught man, no longer young but withered and brittle.

Jacob had sobbed, "I never forgave him for what he did to her. How, how could anyone do that to their child? Even to save another?"

Jacob had paused, trying to gather himself, then added quietly, "And I was five by then, I was aware of what was going on, and you know what I did? _Nothing. _I just cradled my head on my mother's shoulder while my father _murdered _my only sister. I've spent my whole life feeling guilty, and now, she's finally come to claim my life. Maybe you boys should go. You – she could hurt you if you're not careful. Let me face what I deserve. I – I would give anything that it had been me, instead."

Dean had nodded, then abruptly turned to Sam. "Let's go, Sam."

Sam had shot Dean a look of concern and irritation, then raised his eyebrows and glanced at the old man. Dean heard the message – _Dean, can't you see he needs some help?_ – but ignored it. It wasn't that Dean didn't care; it was that he cared _too much_. Because what Mr. Mills had said, had hit Dean to his very core.

Dad had been dead for only three months, but it had felt like a lifetime that Dean had carried his father's secret alone. Dean knew that if Sam knew the secret, he would expect Dean to be wary of him, even afraid. But Dean didn't feel that way at all.

In fact, his first thought after hearing the secret, once the shock had passed, had been, _Why does it always have to be Sammy?_

So, yeah, this one cut a little too close to home.

"Dean, you coming?"

Dean turned to where Sam stood by the now-unlocked gate, waiting for Dean to hand him a shotgun before entering.

"Yeah, let's do this. And remember, we go together."

----

Sam was busy prying open the mausoleum door, when Karissa had finally made her expected appearance.

"Dean – crowbar."

Dean had lowered his eyes for just one second to glance at the bag when she attacked. Without warning, two small hands grabbed hold of Dean's jacket and flung him over three headstones to land on near the base of a tree.

"Dean!"

Dean's head was in agony, but he managed an, "I'm good." He knew that if he said that, Sam would continue with opening the mausoleum instead of foolishly running after Dean.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Dean grunted, pulling himself to his feet and looking around for the ghost. He risked a glance at Sam, who he could see had almost pried the large door open. "You keep working. I'll keep it busy."

No sooner had he said that, then Karissa appeared directly in front of him, her eyes wild. Dean raised the shotgun he'd somehow managed to hang onto, and fired it into her face. She disappeared.

Dean began an unsteady gait back to Sam. Though he was seeing two of everything, he managed to hold his shotgun steady and kept shaking his head until it cleared.

"Sam, you got it ye-"

Dean watched as Sam yanked the door wide. "Got it, Dean," Sam called, and turned just for a moment to look Dean over.

"Dude, you all right? You're bleeding."

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean answered harshly, than winced when he saw the flash of hurt across Sam's eyes. But Sam stowed it away quickly, and Dean wondered not for the first time if he'd taught Sam too much in these past months since the crash. Dean was supposed to have a mask, not the other way around.

"Okay," Sam soothed, nodding. "Let's finish this."

Dean nodded and was right behind Sam, about to enter, when suddenly he heard a fluttering noise from the mausoleum echo. Sam stopped abruptly, his entire body stiff.

"Dean, I think- Ah, God!"

Sam slammed backwards towards the ground. Dean dropped the shotgun in his haste to catch his brother.

"Sam, what...?" he had time to ask before he watched as dozens of small creatures zoomed out from the darkness of the mausoleum and into the black night.

"Dude, it's just bats-" Dean had time to say before he felt himself being tugged from behind harshly. His fingers tightened in his palm, and he barely had time to register that his gun was no longer in his hands when he was flying through the air again.

Dean felt a sharp crack against his head as he landed against a headstone, then he didn't feel anything.

----

Dean woke up to a harsh slam. He opened his eyes slowly, first one and then the other. Wherever he was, it was quiet.

"Sam?" he asked just as he heard the unmistakable sound of a car door opening.

"Dean! Finally, man. I was starting to get worried. Thought maybe I should take you to a hospital..."

Dean stared curiously at the shape of his brother across the leather seat of the Impala. For the life of him, he couldn't recall what was going on.

"What... happened?" Though he was confused, Dean registered the worry in his brother's eyes, and was aware enough to add, "And who said you get to drive?"

Sam's eyes softened, but Dean could still see his concern. "We were about to enter the mausoleum to burn the body. And then those damn bats came out, and when I turned around you were twenty feet away looking dead, man. You don't remember?"

Dean thought for a second then nodded, feeling more coherent. "Yeah... yeah, I remember now."

Dean brought his hand up to his head where it itched, and felt the blood coat his fingers. "Damn it," he muttered, and didn't need to look at Sam to see his brother's worried gaze on him. "Dude, eyes on the road."

Sam's eyes flicked back to the highway, but he still looked guilty. At the moment, though, Dean didn't care too much. He was bleeding, and by the looks of it would probably need stitches, maybe even up into his hair. Despite knowing he had a concussion, Dean couldn't help but let the new feelings of anger wash upon him in waves. Didn't Sam realize how stupid he'd been? Because he'd been scared by a couple of _bats, _he'd almost gotten them both killed. Now Dean had a damn concussion, and Sam was probably sporting some injuries too, that Dean hadn't even been _awake_ for. Not to mention that if Dean had to live with facial scars (indeed, his face was the only place where he'd remained unscathed) because Sam had been scared by a couple of _harmless_ puny creatures, he was going to be really pissed.

"Dean, you sure you're okay to get inside?" Sam asked as they pulled into the parking lot of their motel.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm fine," Dean bit out, more angry then he meant to, but not aware enough to realize it.

Sam nodded, his gaze downward. "I'll get the weapons, then."

"You do that," Dean grunted before slowly pushing the passenger door open, biting back the moan that welled in him as the movement jarred his head. He stood up, and lifted a hand to his forehead as everything spun before settling back into place. Something about the pain in his head made him want to look for someone to blame, and without thinking he turned to Sam.

"Dude, what the hell were you thinking?"

Sam stiffened from his place at the trunk, where he held a duffle bag clean over one shoulder. His eyes looked surprised, not guilty, and Dean decided he had to fix that.

"Fucking hell, Sam! You know better then to hesitate during a hunt. Your freak out session because of some damn bats could have gotten both of us killed!"

Sam's face fell. "Dean, you have a concussion. You need to calm down..."

"Hell no, don't you say shit like that to me, Sam. Just admit it, you fucking messed up. I'm so sick and tired of you making shitty mistakes like that, getting caught off your guard all the time. Usually it's up to me to save your ass, but tonight? I'm the one who's hurt, Sam. And honestly, I'm tired of it. I'm sick of all of this."

"Dean, you don't mean that..."

"You don't know what the hell I mean, Sam. You never have. Just... get the fuck out of my face." Dean turned but immediately got dizzy, and began to sway. Just before he was about to fall, he felt a strong arm grasp him around the waist. "Shit," he muttered.

"You're right, Dean," a broken voice whispered in his ear. "I messed up. And now you're hurt, and it's my damn fault. It's always my fault."

"Damn it, Sam," Dean retorted angrily, as a throb began to pulse at his temple. "Just forget it, okay? Don't worry about it. But tonight you didn't have your head in the game, and you nearly got me killed. Just think about that."

"Dean..." came a soft plea, but Dean hardly heard it as he pulled himself from Sam's grasp and stumbled into the motel room.

Dean saw the bed, and without preamble fell on top of it. _Sam'll clean me up_, he thought to himself, and let himself begin to drift away.

----

Dean felt pretty guilty when he woke up the next morning. _Actually_ woke up, that is. He didn't doubt Sam had roused him throughout the night to check his head, but he didn't remember any of it.

Sitting up now, feeling the tight bandage on his forehead and another one at the back of his neck, recognizing the familiar floating feeling of painkillers, he knew that Sam had taken good care of him.

Sam, who was currently sprawled across the armchair next to Dean's bed, softly snoring. Dean wondered how long Sam had stayed awake, watching over him. Dean felt another surge of guilt, but pushed it far away as he slowly climbed out of bed, intent on taking a shower.

When Dean came out of the bathroom not ten minutes later, Sam was changing out of his sweatpants and into a pair of jeans.

"Hey. How you feeling?" Sam asked as Dean emerged.

"Not too bad," Dean answered quickly, turning to his bag.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I'd imagine the Vicodin are still working their way through your system. You'll feel it in a couple hours, though, probably. I had to give you four stitches on your forehead, and ten on the back of your scalp."

Sam was quiet as he spoke, listing off Dean's other small scrapes and bruises. Dean heard the straightforward words, but beneath them he could feel the layers of guilt. Dean rubbed his cheek. What all had he said to Sam last night, anyways? He remembered feeling angry, but he didn't recall what all had been exchanged.

"...and then after I shot her with rock-salt twice more, I managed to toast the body before she could attack again. If I hadn't freaked out, though, then you wouldn't have gotten hurt and it'd have been a hell of a lot easier."

Dean winced, though Sam, if anything, sounded regretful.

"Sam..." Dean began, then stopped as Sam turned around to face him.

"Yeah?"

_I'm sorry._ "You okay?"

"Yeah... I'm okay," Sam said, turning back to his bag. Dean caught the hesitation, though.

"Where'd she get you, man?" _And don't lie to me, dude. I already feel crappy enough._

Sam shrugged. "It's nothing, Dean. Just a couple scrapes and bruises. Nothing too painful."

Sam let one of his patented dramatic pauses hang in the air, then - "Nothing like yours."

Dean huffed. "Dude, I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Sam didn't turn around, didn't comment. Dean rubbed his temples.

"You should get some more rest, Dean. You have a really nasty concussion."

Dean looked up at Sam. _If that'll make you feel better, Sammy._

"Okay. Yeah."

As Dean lay down again, he decided to let this one go. He'd get better, and Sam would find something else to brood about soon enough.

----

Three weeks later found Sam and Dean on the trail of a nest of vamps. By then, Dean's stitches were gone and the small scars were hardly noticeable. Dean didn't doubt they'd fade altogether with some time.

----

Dean and Sam were busy planning that the next night's vampire hunt when it happened. One moment, Sam was walking to the bathroom to grab some Tylenol for his headache, and the next he was starting to sway.

"Sam?" Dean asked as he hurried over and put his arm around his brother. Sam closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. Dean gently pushed him towards the bed, where he sat Sam down before kneeling in front of him.

"Dude, you okay?" Sam opened his eyes, but Dean saw a slight wince.

"Yeah, I just... I think I just need to sit for a minute."

Dean had actually been expecting this. Sam had been feeling under the weather all day, and it had taken all Dean's willpower to hold back the concern. But if Sam was close to passing out, Dean didn't care. He had to know.

Dean put his hand up on Sam's forehead first, noting the warmth. From there he let his hands rest on Sam's cheeks and then his neck, gauging Sam's temperature as best he could.

Sam's neck was, if anything, warmer. There was no doubt Sam was sick.

"You're feeling a little hot, kiddo," Dean explained. "Let's get you into bed."

"Dean, we have to finish planning-"

"No, Sam. If you get any worse, then we'll have to delay the hunt anyways. Don't be an idiot."

Sam acquiesced, and within minutes was under the covers and snoozing. Dean put a cool cloth on his forehead and a glass of water on the table by the bed, than went to bed himself.

He was reawakened four hours later by the sound of retching. Dean climbed to his feet and then walked into the bathroom. There he found Sam sitting on the floor, his body curled over the toilet. Dean could see he was trembling, and his face was white.

"Sammy?" he asked. Sam merely glanced at him sluggishly, before his eyes widened and he turned back to the toilet, retching again. When he was done, he let himself fall back against the edge of the bathtub, and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

Dean felt a tenderness wash over him, as it always did when Sam was in pain.

"It'll be okay, Sammy," he soothed as he filled another glass with water and grabbed some Tylenol. He handed the pills to Sam, but held the glass as Sam sipped it and downed the medicine. It worried him that Sam hadn't taken the glass as well, or even bitched when Dean held it for him.

Sam seemed to feel the new concern, and turned a tired gaze to Dean. "It's just the flu, man. No worries. Y'think you can help me get up?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, unconvinced, as he wrapped his arm around Sam's waist and put his other palm on Sam's chest to brace him. Slowly, he lifted Sam off the cold floor. It was a short walk back to Sam's bed, but to Dean it felt like eternity. Without worrying about keeping a front, Dean tucked Sam back in, making sure the covers were all tight around him. Then, for good measure, he grabbed his own top cover from his bed, and covered Sam with that too.

Though his eyes were closed, Sam recognized the gesture. "Dude, you're such a girl."

"Well, dude, that's only 'cause you look halfway to death," Dean shot back, pretended to be offended. "Now get some rest. I don't want to see you stir again for a while, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam didn't seem to hear him, though, already having drifted off. Dean stared at him for a minute longer, then rubbed his face and climbed back into bed himself. If he was a little chilled, having just a sheet for warmth, he didn't notice it.

----

_It's not morning yet, is it? _Sunlight invaded his vision and he groaned, turning on his other side away from the window.

"Dean... no..."

Dean's eyes snapped open, instantly alert. Within a second he was standing by Sam's bed, his hand on the little brother's shoulder. With a start, he realized Sam was trembling, far worse then he had been the night before.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, shaking Sam's shoulder slightly.

Sam didn't turn to face him, but instead burrowed deeper into his blankets.

"No, Dean... help him..."

"Sammy? Can you hear me?" Dean said. When Sam didn't answer, Dean gently twisted Sam off his stomach and onto his back. What he saw shook him to the core. Sam's face was covered in sweat. It poured down his cheeks and weaved through his hairline to the tips of his earlobes. His bangs were soaked. Dean put his hand to Sam's forehead.

"Jesus, dude. You're on fire," Dean hissed, then bit his tongue at his choice of words. Sam didn't seem to care though, just continued moaning nonsense. Dean caught his name a couple more times, followed by "help" and "no."

Dean only took a moment to assess the situation, before settling on a response.

"I'm right here, Sammy. I'll take care of you," he reassured his ailing brother.

Without thinking too much about it, Dean began to peel the covers off of Sam's fever-ridden body, all the while murmuring assurances. He cringed when he saw how drenched Sam's sleepshirt was. Gently, Dean hauled Sam up into a sitting position, then sat down himself against Sam's headboard, Sam resting against his chest. Methodically, he pulled Sam's arms out of his t-shirt, and then pulled the shirt all the way off. Next, he twisted so that Sam was practically sitting in his lap, and then clasped one arm around Sam's shoulder and hooked the other under his knees. Slowly, he lifted Sam off the bed and stood up again.

"Damn, Sam, you sure are heavy," he said, his voice light despite the strain on his body. "Think you could wake up and help me out here?"

Sam moaned.

"Guess that's a no, then."

Dean carried his brother into the bathroom, and then with all his remaining strength carefully lowered him into the tub. Sam's head lolled to the side, but Dean quickly grabbed a towel and put it behind his head for a pillow. Without further ado, he turned on the water, glad when it started coming out at just the right temperature – freakin' cold.

Sam let out a whimper when the water hit his feet.

"Hey, buddy, you with me?" Dean said, moving down to where Sam's head rested, and tapping Sam's cheek.

This time he was rewarded with Sam's eyelids fluttering.

"Come on, Sammy. Wake up, just a bit further," he prodded, grinning. Slowly, Sam's eyes opened. His began to look feverishly around, before his gaze settled on Dean.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Dean said, smirking.

"Dean?" Sam rasped, then starting to cough terribly.

"Yeah, man, it's me," Dean said, pushing Sam's bangs out of his face.

"Dean... my feet are cold," Sam managed to say when his cough subsided.

"Yeah, sorry about that, but it had to be done. You're really sick, Sam," Dean said, checking the water temperature again.

"I – I am?"

"Yeah, but don't worry, Sammy. I'm going to take care of it," Dean reassured, his voice confident. "Now, just try not to freak when the rest of your body starts to feel cold, okay? Go back to sleep."

Dean sat up to grab some more towels off one of the racks.

"'K," Sam answered sleepily, closing his eyes, then, "Dean, my neck hurts."

"Yeah well, you are leaned up against the side of a bathtub, Sam."

"No, Dean, it _really_ hurts. Somethin's... not..."

Dean sighed, then turned back to Sam, "Dude, I get it, but – Sam!"

Sam wasn't just shaking anymore, he was _convulsing_. Dean stood in horror for a minute, watching as Sam's body began to writhe in the tub. At first he thought the cold water was making him tremble, but the water was barely an inch high and not nearly cold enough to do that.

Dean's mouth flopped open and then closed again, like a fish. _Sammy. SAMMY._

"SAMMY!"

Dean ran to the tub and began to pull Sam out, his hands hooked under Sam's armpits. As quickly but safely as he could, he laid Sam out on the bathroom floor, instinctively grabbing one of the towels and putting it underneath Sam's lolling head. Sam continued to shake, his eyes clamped shut and his face contorted. He appeared to be in major pain, and Dean could tell it was getting worse.

_Oh god, oh shit Sam Sammy Sammy-_

"Sam! Can you hear me? Sammy please!"

Sam didn't stop though, and Dean could only watch as his little brother's mouth opened wide in a silent scream.

God, Dean could hardly stand it. He clenched his brother's hand once, then twice.

"I'll be right back, I promise Sam!"

Dean ran into the main room and grabbed his cell from the nightstand, and was back at Sam's side before he'd finished dialing 911.

He pulled his seizing brother across his lap as an operator picked up on the other side.

"Oh god, please, it's my brother, I think he's having some sort of seizure!"

Sam's face was stark white, his eyes now open, pupils blown, tears running down his face as he stared up at Dean.

"I don't know, he was feeling sick last night and had a fever but now it's really high and he won't stop trembling and – please..."

"Room 217, Westview Motel. God, please, get them here soon."

Dean hung up, absentmindedly tossing the phone on the floor as he cradled Sam in his arms. By this time, Sam's apparent seizure had subsided down to minor shaking.

"Sammy, can you hear me? Sammy please, I need to know if you're all right..."

Sam's eyes were closed, and he didn't answer. He was completely limp in Dean's arms. Dean put his fingers against Sam's neck, and felt a slow but steady thump against his fingers. He let out a sigh of relief.

"Oh god, Sammy, you have to be okay... you're going to be okay little brother... Sammy, can you hear me? It's Dean. Stay with me Sammy..."

But Sam was already far away. And Dean feared that he might not be able to pull him back...

----

"I understand that, but it's been over an hour. I just want to know where my brother is, and if he's okay. Please?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. James, but this is normal procedure. As soon as the doctors are finished with the patient, they will come speak with you."

"Listen, I don't care about 'normal procedure'. There are like ten of you nurses walking around doing goddamn _nothing_, and all I'm asking for is that one of you find out where my brother is, and what's happening."

"Sir, I understand, but-"

"DAMN it!"

Dean slapped the counter and stormed away, back to the empty waiting area – save for himself. Upon arriving at the hospital, Sam had been taken behind closed doors and Dean had been told that "you'll know as soon as we know."

"Yeah well, they'd better know _something_ by now, that's for goddamn sure," Dean muttered to himself. In truth, it wasn't really the doctors and nurses he was angry with. But it was pretty hard to cuss out yourself, and especially in public. Not that Dean hadn't done it before. But not when he was only a floor or two below a psychiatric ward.

Dean rubbed his eyes, and then his entire face, then his neck. It had been over an hour since they'd taken Sam away, and still nothing. It hadn't been like Sam was bleeding to death or anything. The paramedics had hooked him up to oxygen and IVs on the way over, but they didn't seem overly concerned. Sam had even woken up in the ambulance, and seemed coherent enough.

_But what if something went wrong after they took him away? _

Dean stood up and looked out the window into the parking lot, trying to find some sort of distraction from his worry. It wasn't getting him anywhere, anyways.

"Mr. James?" Dean spun around to face the doctor.

"Yes. How is my brother?"

"He's stable. But there's some things we need to discuss. Let's sit down."

Dean's jaw clenched. He knew that when doctors asked you to sit down, you were about to receive some bad news. _Not dead. Anything but dead._

"Doc, I've been sitting for over an hour. Just tell me if Sam's okay. He's not..."

The doctor shook his head. "As I said, he's stable. But for how long, I don't know."

Dean felt his face drain of color. "What... what do you mean?"

"Mr. James, how long has it been since your brother was bitten?"

_What the fuck?_

"Bit- bitten?"

"Yes. We found two small puncture scars on his shoulder. They were barely discernable, but still raw enough that we noticed them during his examination."

_Oh god. Sammy's been vamped? But I would... _"I... I don't know. I didn't even know anything had... hurt him. Why? Are they causing the... illness?"

The doctor sighed. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Mr. James, we did a full body scan and examination of your brother, and we found nothing that explained all his symptoms. But once we found the bite, we immediately did an emergency blood exam. And what we found... well, it's not common but it matches up with the bite."

_Okay, so unless this guy is a hunter, Sam won't be drinking blood soon. _"What is it?"

"Mr. James... your brother's bloodwork came back positive for rabies."

Dean blanched. "Rabies?"

"Yes."

It hit Dean like a bullet.

"_You okay?"_

"_Yeah, I'm okay."_

"_Where'd she get you, man?"_

"_It's nothing, Dean. Just a couple scrapes and bruises. Nothing too painful._

"_Nothing like yours."_

Dean's teeth clicked. "So what are you doing to treat it? There's a vaccine, isn't there? How long will it be before he gets better?"

The doctor looked very uncomfortable. Dean's heart clenched.

"He... he will get better?" Dean meant it to come out as a statement of fact, but the way his voiced hitched it was more a question.

The doctor glanced at the wall, then back to Dean. "Mr. James, I'm afraid that unless someone is given the vaccine within a couple days of contracting the virus, the vaccine is not effective at countering it. Chances are this virus has been building in your brother's system for close to a month, which is far too long. At this point, it has complete control of your brother's immune system. His body is working hard to fight it, but... the chances of survival at this point are nonexistent. We're going to do everything we can to keep your brother comfortable, but you must prepare yourself for his passing."

----

Dean was numb. Sitting in the dark next to Sam's bed, his body leaned over so that his head rested on his brother's arm, Dean tried desperately to grasp the situation. After the doctor's final prognosis, Dean had only quietly asked where his brother's room was, and then had walked until he found it. Well, more like stumbled upon it. At that point, he hadn't been processing much.

Dean knew that if he could think things through, then he'd figure a way out of this. He had to, because losing Sam wasn't an option. It couldn't be. Dean wouldn't let it be.

Dean slowly raised his head, and gave Sam another once over. In the time since Dean had sat down beside him, Sam hadn't awoken, but neither did he seem to get worse. Dean took that as a good sign.

Without thinking, Dean reached out and clasped Sam's hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. When Sam had been just a baby, Dean had spent many hours sitting with him on motel beds, his larger little kid fingers poking Sam's stubby infant ones. Baby Sammy had been fascinated with Dean's hands. Dean would let him play with them for hours, often twiddling them on little Sammy's tummy until he smiled and giggled, enjoying the "game". Looking at their hands together now, Dean wondered if Sam had ever tired of their playtime together, or if Dean had pushed him away first.

He didn't doubt it was the latter.

"Sam... please, dude, you gotta wake up," Dean whispered, not for the first time. He'd been murmuring requests at Sam since he'd first sat down. Asking Sam to wake up, or to clench Dean's hand, or to keep fighting, or to get better. So far, none of these things had happened, except maybe the keep fighting one. Sam hadn't gotten worse yet, after all.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

The incessant machinery noise made itself present to Dean again. It had bothered him at first, but had eventually turned into just background for all Dean's thoughts. Now, however, it was annoying him in full force.

Dean closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. All he wanted right then was to kick that damn heart machine, which was measuring his brother's life. What right did it have? It didn't know anything about his brother. Sam's life wasn't summed up in the amount of beats per minute, or number of breaths. It was defined by the look on Sam's face when he was researching, all lost in thought and oblivious to the outside world. It was gauged by the way Sam laughed at Dean's quips, or the deep concern that emanated from Sam each time another victim was claimed. It was measured by the way Sam walked, his long strides taking one step for every two of Dean's. Or the way Sam spoke, using "college-boy language" Dean bitched about every chance he got, even when he knew exactly what Sam was saying. It was measured in Sam's smile, which Dean didn't see very often anymore but knew definitely existed somewhere beneath Sam's broody, emo, _girly_ nature. And God, who was Dean kidding?

"Sam, you can't let this beat you," he whispered. "You're fucking _immeasurable_, little brother. You can't go now – not like this."

----

"ames... Mr. James?"

Dean opened his eyes. _Damn it._ He'd fallen asleep while on watch.

"Yeah?" he said, raising his head. "What is it?"

The doctor was back, standing at the doorway. "Could you please come with me, Mr. James? Just out into the hallway."

Dean stole a glance at Sam. He guessed he'd only slept for a couple minutes, if that, as there seemed to be no change in the light escaping through Sam's hospital window. Despite the sun, Sam still looked pale. And, was that – no, it couldn't –

"Sam, Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam didn't move, but the tear he'd just _cried_ slid slowly down his face.

"Sammy?" Dean pleaded, wiping away the tear and leaning over his brother, one hand resting against Sam's cheek. "Sammy?"

Dean felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. "Mr. James, I'm afraid we have your brother under mild sedation. I assure you, he's not awake."

Dean turned to the doctor, his death glare on high. "For your information, _Doctor_, Sam just cried. A fucking _tear_ came out of his eye. To me, that signals that he's pretty damn close to waking up."

"Please, Sir, listen to me. Tears are a normal part of the rabies infection. Patients often cry in later stages," the doctor implored. "Please, Mr. James. There is something very important I'd like to discuss with you. Come with me?"

Dean looked back down at Sam. He looked so fragile, and for a second there Dean had been sure he was about to awake. Dean _needed_ to see Sam's eyes again. He knew he couldn't go on if he didn't get the chance to see Sam's eyes, at least one last time.

But there were no more tears, and Sam didn't move. "All right," Dean agreed, and walked out of Sam's room with the doctor. "Okay, what is it?"

"I've been calling contacts across the country searching for any potential treatments for your brother, Mr. James," the doctor began. "And, I think I may have found something."

Dean felt a glimmer of hope. "What... what is it?"

"You must understand, Mr. James, that while the virus causes them, it is the symptoms that kill the victim. The rabies virus has thousands of strains, each one unique to different reactions, based on both the patient and the circumstances. In most cases, the victims die within two to ten days of showing symptoms. Most common, the deaths are caused by brain failure. To date, six of the seven known survivors of rabies – _without_ getting the vaccine – suffered from severe, irreversible brain damage afterwards."

Dean gave this some thought. "What about the seventh?"

The doctor smiled gently. "Two years ago, there was a rabies case in Wisconsin. A teenage girl was infected, and wasn't diagnosed until she was suffering from the common symptoms, same as your brother. However, the doctors who were treating her, recognized that if they could just protect the brain long enough for the body's natural immune system to kill the virus, the girl might survive. Not only that, but she might survive without any lasting effects from the ordeal."

"And?" Dean asked, anxious to get to back to his brother.

"They put the girl into an induced coma for a week, just long enough for her body to fight off and kill the virus. Two months later, she left the hospital, without suffering any mental damage."

Dean stared at the doctor. "You want to try this with Sam, don't you? You want to put him into a coma?"

"Yes," the doctor said, nodding. "I know it sounds risky, but I have examined your brother. He is strong and young, and he's fighting hard. I believe that there is a possibility he may survive if we do this."

The doctor paused. "At this point, Mr. James, this is the only option. If we don't try this, your brother will die. But if we do, there is a small chance he could come through."

"Is there..." Dean took a moment to gather himself, almost afraid to ask, "Is there still a chance he'd have brain damage?"

"At this point, my prerogative is to see that your brother survives. There is no guarantee that he won't suffer damage. I have to be frank with you, Mr. James. The Wisconsin case is one-of-a-kind. Since then, this method has been performed multiple times, and never with the same results as in Wisconsin."

Dean stared hard into the doctor's eyes. "Do it."

The doctor blinked. "You understand, there are lots of variables, and this is far from a sure bet. The chances of your brother surviving..."

Dean closed his eyes, took a breath, than opened them again. "If anyone can make it, Sam can. I'll do anything that will give him a fighting chance. He'll make it, I know he will."

----

Nine days. Dean hadn't even realized how long it had been until he'd noticed a calendar in the nurse's station while going to get some coffee.

Nine days since Sam had been pulled under by the virus assailing his body. Nine days since Dean had nearly been washed out to sea with him.

If Dean ever had a wish, it was that he'd _never_ have to be in a hospital again, when this was all over.

"Fat chance of that, though, right Sammy?" Dean had quietly murmured to Sam one night. "You know, after this, you'll have to gain your strength back before we hunt again. There's no way I'm letting you back out there 'til you're plenty ready. It might take a while, but we'll get your back into shape, kiddo. You just gotta keep fighting, okay?"

It had been like this for the entirety of Sam's treatment. Dean had never talked to Sam so much in his life. Never before had he bared his soul so completely. Since Sam had been put into the deep coma, he'd had constant care and attention by numerous doctors and nurses. But while he was thankful, Dean knew only he would make the difference where Sam was concerned. If Sam could hear Dean wherever he was, Dean knew Sammy would listen to him, and follow him. And once they found each other, they'd leave here together. So Dean just hadn't quit talking, using his voice to will Sam to get better. And when Dean ran out of words, he would sing. Sometimes Metallica, other times random lullabies that he remembered from when he was very young and when Sam was still a baby.

"Sorry about the scratchy voice, Sam," Dean had told him on the fourth day. "But I'm running low on smooth vocals right now." Even when Dean had lost his voice nearly completely, he didn't stop talking – just started whispering instead. And he'd told his brother nearly everything – how lost Dean had felt when Mom died, about Dean's first kill when he knew he wanted to be a hunter, about how scared Dean had been when Dad first disappeared. In fact, there were only two topics Dean hadn't mentioned yet: Dad's secret about Sammy, and the night Sam had been bitten.

The first one was because Dean was afraid Sam could actually hear. The second one was because Dean was afraid of what _he_ would hear. But on the ninth day, Dean just couldn't keep it in. It had been too long, too fucking long that Dean had gone without Sam.

"Sammy, can you hear me? If you can, I need you to listen close, kiddo," Dean said, once again holding onto Sam's hand. It was both of their lifelines now. "God, Sam, I'm so sorry. I know I've said a lot over this week, but I haven't said that yet. But you need to hear it. You deserve to hear it. You're so fucking _good_, Sam. You're a better man then I'll ever be. I know you don't think that, but it's true. Sam, this is my fault. You don't get the blame for this. You remember the day after you torched that girl, after the cemetery? And those goddamn bats. I was so ashamed of myself, Sam. I knew I'd been an ass to you the night before, but I couldn't remember it 'cause of the concussion. But instead of talking about it, I just wanted to brush it all away. Pretend it never happened, y'know? So I just ignored it. And in the process, I didn't make sure you were okay."

Dean knew what Sam would say here. _"Dean, stop being an idiot. I knew I'd been bitten. I should have told you myself. It's not your job to take care of me all the time."_

"Yes it is, Sam. It is my job. And I didn't do it. And now you might die because of it," Dean lamented, feeling a sob welling within him. He hadn't cried yet, but he figured he owed Sam for the tear the week before. "Damn it, Sam. You have to stay with me. I need you around, don't ever think I don't. Without you, Sam, I'd... I'd be dead. Or as close to dead as you can be while still breathing. Please Sam, don't leave me. Sammy. Remember what I said that night? We go together, Sam, or not at all. Can you hear me Sam? We go together, or not at all."

The monitors beeped quietly. The ventilator whooshed.

Dean watched.

Sam slept.

----

"I – I can't believe it, Mr. James. But the virus is gone. There's no trace left in your brother's body. It appears his immune system has completely fought it off. It's – it's a miracle."

Despite his exhaustion, Dean grinned. "You obviously haven't met my brother."

----

"Dude, quit with the hovering already."

"I'm not hovering."

"Yeah, right. Hey, you think you can bring my laptop over here next time? And my Blackberry, too."

"Of course, Princess. Would you also like me to kiss your feet while I'm at it?"

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Ass."

"Fairy spawn."

Sigh. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Let's see... nope."

Sigh.

"Can you quit with the sighing, Samantha? You're such a drama queen."

"Yeah, and you weren't these last two weeks? I bet you were crying over my bed and everything, dude."

"I quite enjoyed the vacation, actually. No lame little brother around to ooze brood as often as he drinks coffee, y'know. I found it quite appealing."

"Sure you did, Dean."

Beat. Two beats.

"Just don't do this again, Sam."

"Don't worry, dude. I won't forget."

"Forget what, Sammy?"

Patented dramatic pause.

"We go together."

----

_**Dictum** - n., pl. dicta, also dictums. Literally, a thing said. A noteworthy statement: a formal pronouncement of a principle, proposition, or opinion_


End file.
